everything is kind of slow
by orvaign
Summary: AU - Sherlock and John are cancer patients and become friends in hospital.


**Written for a prompt on my fanfiction tumblr.**

Everything is kind of slow.

They wake up in the morning, they get their breakfast served to them, they spend the rest of the morning reading or taking walks. Lunch comes and goes, they spend the afternoon watching television or simply thinking, quietly mourning the loss of another day. Then dinner, then lights off. More quiet thinking. They can go through whole days without speaking.

Then they notice each other.

They were always aware of each other, just one bed over, in the ward they keep the terminal patients. One day, just after breakfast – when there's still hope for the day to be salvaged – John looks over to the man in the bed a few feet away and asks what he's reading.

"_Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy._"

"John le Carré?"

"Yes."

"Good book."

"Yes."

Silence for the rest of the day.

John notices things about the other man, the way he quietly rearranges his IV when the doctor hasn't done it right, the weary way he talks – like someone who has spent their entire life talking to people who won't listen, and is too tired and ill to speak any more. John finds him fascinating.

A few days of silence later, the man asks to borrow the Tchaikovsky CD that John's sister had left him as a flustered, uncomfortable gift on her last visit. John watches with amusement as the man listens to the music, lip curled distastefully. He passes the CD back without comment.

The day after that, they exchange names.

"I'm John Watson."

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes."

"And you, Dr John Watson."

"How did you –"

"I observed."

His voice is weary, and John doesn't ask.

From then on, they're friends. They talk to each other to bridge the long, lonely days between doctor's appointments and chemotherapy, counselling each other through the first lock of dark hair left on a white, clean pillow, the first missed visit from a sister who can't handle the emotions. Sherlock eventually opens up and tells John about his job as a detective and John responds by asking him to deduce some things about the people around him. Sherlock obliges for a little while, but it makes him tired. Nevertheless, John sees a small smile on his face that day.

A week later, in a lull of silence, John states, "Pancreatic cancer."

"I know."

"You?"

"Brain tumour. Malignant."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"I know."

They don't talk about it again.

John introduces Sherlock to Harriet and they get on, as far as Harriet's inability to face the situation allows her. Her visits are always brief, borne out of a sense of obligation, and John knows that if she thinks she could live with herself after he's gone, she wouldn't be there at all. It makes her uncomfortable, John's situation, and so they don't talk about it. They make small talk about Clara, about the hospital food, about how much Sherlock misses his flat. John shares stories about his time in the army and Sherlock listens attentively. Harriet leaves after a few hours, leaving a Radiohead CD, and John and Sherlock look at it for a second before bursting into laughter.

Their days pass much like this, on the ward. Sometimes they have cups of tea with the nurses or the doctors, if it's a slow day. Sometimes they don't talk for the whole day, because they don't need to. Once, Sherlock's brother visited – he was even worse than Harriet. John didn't ask why they were so cold towards each other, but Sherlock told him anyway. Familial issues. Two great minds. Intellectual clashes. It's all very much above John's understanding, not least because Sherlock keeps losing his train of thought, but he's sympathetic.

One day, Sherlock calmly puts his book aside and takes off his headphones, _Fake Plastic Trees _quietly audible. He turns to John, and he says, "Thank you, John."

"For what?"

"Your company made this . . . so much more bearable."

John doesn't have to be a detective to work out what's happening. So he silently nods and, after a moment's hesitation, holds out his hand for Sherlock to take as he quietly, tiredly slips into a coma.

John feels like a soldier again, facing something inevitable that he desperately doesn't want to happen, physical contact with a comrade all he's got left. He's still holding Sherlock's hand when they call Mycroft in and a decision is made, to honour Sherlock's wishes and turn the life support machine off. Sherlock Holmes dies holding the hand of a man he met on the ward, a man he shared his life with, a man who understood his weariness at living in a world that didn't listen. Mycroft stands by his bedside with his jaw clenched, and quietly excuses himself after a while to make arrangements. Everything is dealt with and John is allowed a day to go to the funeral.

After that, John barely speaks until the day he himself slips away. In his final moments of wakefulness, he turns his head to the now-empty bed beside him and quietly says, "Thank _you,_ Sherlock."

Harriet, without a fuss, arranges the funeral.


End file.
